He poured himself more coffee, his hand shaking a little.
"Today," he said, "my girl and I. 1 was going to ask to marry. She maybe not such great girl, and I'm not such great fellow either, but we have standard. I think, when a fellow needs to ask to many, such a thing should at least be possi- ble. Nothing else is civilized."
He leaned in toward the lens, his head and shoulders swelling. "But then comes this curfew business. I am not liking this very much, but I am good citizen so I am deciding, okay. Go right ahead Jeyaratnam. Catch the terror rascals, give them what for, definitely. Then, the cops. are coming into my building."
He settled back a little, twitching, a light-trail flickering from his glasses. "I admire a cop. Cop is a fine, necessary fellow. Cop on the beat, I always say to him, `Good morning, fellow, good job, keep the peace.' Even ten cops are okay. A
hundred cops though, and I am changing mind rapidly. Sud- denly my neighborhood very plentiful in cop. Thousands.
Have real people outnumbered. Barging into my flat. Search every room, every gracious thing. Take my fingerprints, take my blood sample even."
He showed a sticking plaster on the ball of his thumb.
"Run me through computer, chop-chop, tell me to clean up that parking ticket. Then off they run, leave door open, no please or thank you, four million others needing botheration also. So I turn on telly for news. One channel only, la. Tell me we have seize Johore reservoir again. If we have so much water, then why is south side of city on fire apparently, la?
This I am asking myself."
He slammed down ,his coffee cup. "Can't call girl friend.
Can't call mother even. Can't even complain to local politico as Parliament is now all spoilt. What is use of all that voting and stupid campaigns, if it come to this, finish? Is anybody else feeling this way, I am wondering. I am not political, but
I am not trusting Government one millimeter. I am small person, but I am not nothing at all."
Normal Guy looked close to tears suddenly. "If this is for the good of city then where are citizens? Streets empty!
Where is everyone? What kind of city is this become? Where is Vienna police, they the terrorist experts? Why is this happening? Why no one ask me if I think it okay? It not one bit okay to me, definitely! I want to success like everyone, I am working hard and minding business, but this too much.
Soon come they arrest me for doing this telly business. Do you feel better off to hear of me? Is better than sit here and rot by myself...."
There was furious pounding on Normal Guy's door. He looked spooked. He leaned forward jerkily and the screen went back to nothingness.
Laura's cheeks were damp. She was crying again. Her eyes felt like they'd been scratched with steel wool. No control.
Oh, hell, that poor brave, scared little guy. Goddamn it all anyway....
Someone shouted at the shop's doorway. Laura looked up, startled. It was a tall, tough-looking, turbanned Sikh in a khaki shirt and Gurkha shorts. He had a badge and shoulder patches and he carried a leather-wrapped lathi stick. "What are you doing, madams?"
"Uh... " Laura scrambled to her feet. The canvas seat of her chair was soaked through with the rounded wet print of her butt. Her eyes were brimming tears-she felt terrified and deeply, obscurely humiliated.
"Don't..." She couldn't think of anything to say.
The Sikh guard looked at her as if she'd dropped from
Mars. "You are a tenant here, madam?"
"The riots," Laura said. "I thought there was shelter here. "
"Tourist madam? A Yankee!" He stared at her, then pulled black-rimmed glasses from a shirt-pocket case and put them on. "Oh!" He had recognized her.
"All right," Laura said. She stretched out her chafed wrists, still in their severed plastic handcuffs. "Arrest me, officer. Take me into custody.
The Sikh blushed. "Madam, I am only private security.
Cannot arrest you." The little old lady got up suddenly and shuffled directly at him. He sidestepped clumsily out of her way at the last moment. She wandered out into the hall. He stared after her meditatively.
"Thought you were looters," he said. "Very sorry."
Laura paused. "Can you take me to a police station?"
"Surely, Mrs.... Mrs. Vebbler. Madam, I am not helping to notice that you are all wet."
Laura tried to smile at him. "Rain. Water cannon too, actually."
The Sikh stiffened. "Is a very great sorrow to me that you experience this in our city while a guest of the Singapore government, Mrs. Webber."
"That's okay," Laura muttered. "What's your name, sir?"
"Singh, madam."
All Sikhs were named Singh. Of course. Laura felt like an idiot. "I could kind of use the police, Mr. Singh. I mean some nice calm police, well out of the riot area."
Singh tucked his lathi stick smartly under his arm. "Very well, madam." He was struggling not to salute. "You are following me, please."
They walked together down the empty hall. "Settling you very soon," Singh said encouragingly. "Duty is difficult in these times."
"You said it, Mr. Singh."
They stepped into a cargo elevator and went down a floor into a dusty parking area. Lots of bikes, a few cars, mostly old junkers. Singh pointed with his stick. "You are riding pillion on my motor scooter if agreeable?"
"Sure, okay." Singh unlocked his bike and switched it on.
They climbed aboard and drove up an exit ramp with a comical, high-pitched whir. The rain had died down for the moment. Singh eased into the street.
"There are roadblocks," Laura told him.
"Yes, but-" Singh hesitated. He hit the brakes.
One of the cant-winged fighter jets of the Singapore Air
Force flew above them with a silken roar. With snaky sud- denness, it flickered into a dive, as if sidestepping its own shadow. Real hotdog flying. They watched it open-mouthed.
Something streaked from beneath its wings. A missile. It left a pencil of smoke in the damp air. From the docklands came a sudden violent burst of white-orange fire. Tinkertoy chunks of ruptured loading crane balleted through the air.
Thunder rolled through the empty streets.
Singh swore and turned the bike around. "Enemies attack- ing! We go back to safety at once!"
They rode back down the ramp. "That was a Singaporean jet, Mr. Singh."
Singh pretended not to hear her. "Duty now is clear. You are coming with me, please."
They took an elevator up to the sixth floor. Singh was silent, his back ramrod-straight. He wouldn't meet her eyes.
He led her down the corridor to a hall apartment and knocked three times.
A plump woman in black slacks and a tunic opened the door. "My wife," said Singh. He gestured Laura inside.
The woman stared in amazement. "Laura Webster!" she said.
"Yes!" Laura said. She felt like hugging the woman.
It was a little three-room place. Very modest. Three bug- cute children bounded into the front room: a boy of nine, a girl, another boy still a toddler. "You have three children,
Mr. Singh?"
"Yes," Singh said, smiling. He picked up the littlest boy and mussed his hair. "Makes many tax problems. Working two jobs." He and his wife began talking rapidly in Bengali or Hindi maybe, something incomprehensible, but speckled with English loan words. Like fighter jet and television.
Mrs. Singh, whose name was Aratavari or something vaguely similar, took Laura into the parental bedroom. "We shall get you into some dry clothes," she said. She opened the closet and took a folded square cloth from the top shelf. It was breathtaking: emerald-green silk with gold embroidery. "A
sari will fit you," she said, shaking it out briskly. It was obviously her finest garment. It looked like something a rajah's wife would wear for ritual suttee.
Laura toweled her hair and face. "Your English is very good."